


backseat blues

by soupmetaphors



Category: Mafia (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-29
Updated: 2018-12-29
Packaged: 2019-09-29 18:28:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17208647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soupmetaphors/pseuds/soupmetaphors
Summary: Vito watches Henry bleed out in the back seat. Outside, the snow falls, pristine and white.





	backseat blues

**Author's Note:**

> i posted this to my tumblr about a year ago, but i've decided to transfer it here. enjoy!
> 
> btw this is an au set during ch. 5 when the boys are driving to el greco's. this time, vito is in the backseat instead of joe.

Henry’s bleeding all over the back seat of the car, and all Vito can smell is smoke mixed with that familiar coppery tang he’s spent almost two years breathing in. 

( _Two years, breathing in the scent of his own blood, the blood of his comrades, of civilians, of a seemingly growing mountain of the dead._

 _It’s almost second nature for him._ )

Henry’s breathing is ragged, every breath an uphill struggle. He’s looking away from Vito, out the window. His fingers dig into the fabric of his shirt, gripping so hard Vito is sure it will tear.

“I think we lost ‘em,” Joe calls from up front. “Too fuckin’ easy, huh?”

“Yeah.” The word claws itself out of Vito’s throat. “Shit, Joe, wherever we’re goin’-”

“We’ll make it.”

Henry laughs. It’s almost like a wheeze. “If i don’t make it-”

“Shut your fuckin’ mouth,” Joe snaps. “We’re gonna get you all patched up, don’t you fuckin’ worry.”

 _Don’t you fuckin’ worry._ Vito’s heard that a lot, too, back in the army.

( _“You’re going to be okay!” like a fucking mantra, even as life fades from eyes once full of fire, even when the grip on his shoulder slackens, hands falling away-_ )

“ _Fuck_ ,” Henry hisses, as the car takes an abrupt turn, throwing them to the side. 

Vito’s shoulder slams into his. There’s a moment of struggle to regain their balance, Vito’s hands on the seats, Henry pushing himself away from the door, and then Henry’s hand is on his arm.

Vito wonders how many times Henry's been shot. He wonders how many times he’s sat in some backseat, hands slick with his own blood, every last moment of his life running wildly through his mind.

“Hey.” He lowers his tone, tries to make his voice sound as calm as possible. “Hey, c’mon, Henry, don’t be like that.”

“Don’t be like what?” Henry’s grip tightens. A grimace flashes across his face as the car gives another shudder. “Gimme a fuckin’ break-”

He stares at Vito, gaze feverish, shoulders heaving. Vito can see how pale he is, how much blood is pumping out of his body, staining his trousers, the seats, the floor.

“Joe-” Breaks his gaze from Henry's desperate, bitter one. “Joe, we better be there soon-”

“We’re almost there. Just- Just hang on, Henry, just give it a couple a’ minutes.”

A couple of minutes can break or make a world, and Vito knows that if they don’t get there quick, he’s going to be sitting next to a stiff for the next half an hour.

Pulls off his jacket, dislodging Henry's hand in the process. The man growls. Vito raises an eyebrow, doesn’t say anything until he balls up his jacket and tries to staunch the blood flow.

A sharp  _hiss_ pulls itself out between Henry's teeth. His hand grabs Vito's shoulder, teeth gritted, forehead gleaming with sweat. “Vito, _Christ_ -”

“It’s going to be okay,” Vito says, quietly. Applies pressure on the wound, already feeling the fabric dampen with blood. “Just sit back, shut up, and let us handle it.”

Henry says nothing, but Vito can feel his nails digging into his arm, feel how warm his hand is. 

(Y _ou tell them it’s going to be okay- Even when it isn’t._ )

He wants to tell Henry it’s alright to feel desperate, it’s okay to feel perhaps even scared. He’s seen plenty of fresh-faced boys crying for their mothers right before the lights in their eyes blink out of existence. 

But Henry isn’t a fresh-faced boy. And whatever thoughts he has are locked away behind his lips, and all Vito can do is try to keep him alive.

“Hey, hey, hey-!” Henry's head snaps up at the sound of his voice. “We’re almost there and you’re sleeping on me?”

There’s so much blood. There’s so much blood, and Vito can  _taste_ it in the back of his throat. 

“Not sleepin’,” Henry mutters. “Just restin’ my eyes.”

“Sure, that’s what they  _all_ say. And when i ain’t lookin’-  _Bam!_ Dead.”

Henry doesn’t laugh. His eyes start to close- Just as Joe brings the car to a screeching halt in front of a house in the middle of fuck-all-nowhere.

Henry's grasp slackens as Vito pulls away and gets out of the car, almost tripping in the snow. Bangs on the front door til the doctor opens it, gives them all a clinical gaze.

Words are exchanged, and Vito barely knows what is being said, but suddenly he’s holding money, and the door’s being closed, leaving him outside alone.

He stands there for a while, staring at the wooden door.

( _Henry's grip on his arm, his name strung out like a prayer._

_Maybe he’s being delusional. Maybe it’s the excessive bleeding, Maybe it’s the fear of dying alone without human touch._

_Maybe Vito's overthinking._ )

He doesn’t notice the bloody hand print Henry's left on his shirt until much, much later, like a branding mark, like some unspoken agreement, like a brief spark catching on something that shouldn’t have been ignited in the first place.


End file.
